


Highway's Jammed With Broken Heroes

by brynnmck



Category: due South
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, M/M, References to Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-18
Updated: 2008-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-14 18:05:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brynnmck/pseuds/brynnmck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> He smells his Pop before he sees him: cigar smoke, tinged blue and drifting through the open screen door, burning the inside of Ray's nose.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Highway's Jammed With Broken Heroes

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for mention of child abuse.
> 
> I was watching [this video](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tJQgwqojirs) a little while back and this AU idea kind of popped into my head. Thanks and love to [](http://sdwolfpup.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://sdwolfpup.livejournal.com/)**sdwolfpup** for beta and encouragement; all remaining mistakes are mine.

Ray's not sure how long he's been walking. It must be after midnight, but the air is still sticking in his lungs, heavy with heat and moisture, settling in a film on his skin. He unbuttons his shirt and lets it hang open, winces a little at the pressure of the air on his stomach through the thin undershirt. He can feel his pulse pounding in his head. His feet keep moving.

 

_He smells his Pop before he sees him: cigar smoke, tinged blue and drifting through the open screen door, burning the inside of Ray's nose. When he looks inside, he can just see the small red glow from the kitchen. The rest of the house is dark, everyone gone to bed already._

_Fuck._

_He moves carefully up the porch stairs, swings the door open on hinges he always keeps oiled, hoping maybe, maybe—_

_"Raimundo."_

 

He looks up and starts to see the pattern in the street signs. Throop, Quinn, Poplar. So that's where he's going. He walks faster.

 

_"You're late."_

_"I was out, Pop."_

_"Out with who?" Moving out of the kitchen now, a short, thick, solid shadow in the doorframe. Ray's heart starts to thud._

_"No one." It's true—he'd just needed to walk for a while, clear his head. Ma had taken Frannie and Maria to the fabric store for Frannie's prom dress, Ray'd had no reason to rush home._

_"Were you with that Kowalski kid again?" Lurching closer. Sour bite of cheap red wine underneath the cigar smell. "Fucking faggot."_

_Ray's whole body seizes up, but he forces himself to breathe, breathe. No way his Pop could know, and anyway—"He's got a girlfriend, Pop." At least Ray thinks he does. This week. He's known Kowalski and Stella for five years now and he's pretty sure they've had more makeup sex than ordinary sex. They don't seem to mind._

_Stubby finger in his chest. "You're wasting your time, you know that? What about Frank Zuko? You used to pal around with him. And there—there is a friend to have." Another poke to the chest._

_"Zuko." Ray can't help it, the word comes out of his mouth like it tastes bad. Poisonous. "You don't know what you're talking about."_

_And then silence. Long, dangerous silence._

_Ray swallows hard._

_"What did you say to me?" his Pop asks softly._

 

He's practically running by the time he finally reaches the building. He grabs a few pieces of gravel from the ground, chucks them at one of the windows on the third story. Quick succession, one-two-three, like he's been doing since he was thirteen. And then he waits, pacing.

 

_He grits his teeth, hissing in breath as quietly as he can. One, two, three… Can't make noise. Can't wake the girls. Then it'll just get worse._

 

Finally, Kowalski pokes his head out the window, his hair sticking in nineteen different directions. "Vecchio. What are you doing?"

Ray shrugs, shoves his hands in his pockets. Relief is raining through him and he has to lock his knees to stay still. "Nothing."

"Nothing." Kowalski sounds like he's smiling, though it's hard to tell with the angle of the light. "Just, uh. Out for a walk? Okay, if that's the way you want to play it. I can do that. I am good with that." He clambers out the window onto the fire escape, obviously still working out how to get his legs to do what he wants after his last growth spurt.

 

_By the time he can breathe past the red smear of heat and sweat and stinging pain, the sound of the door slamming shut is nothing but an echo in his mind, and there's pavement underneath his feet._

 

Ray looks up at him as he makes his way down, at the bottoms of his tennis shoes through the grating and the frayed cuffs of his jeans. This is stupid, maybe. Not like Kowalski's his boyfriend or something, gonna rescue him, let Ray cry into his shoulder while the music swells in the background. Sure, they mess around sometimes, but they're guys. It's not a _thing_. Ray's not even sure why he's here.

Kowalski skips the ladder on the last landing and swings down to the ground with a grunt.

"Hey." He's grinning, and panting a little. He rolls his shoulders underneath the dirt-streaked white t-shirt; he's got a pack of Marlboros rolled up into one sleeve. And Ray's just watching him, the dirty gold of his hair under the streetlight and the wide welcome of his smile, and the pressure builds in Ray's chest like someone's inflating a balloon behind his sternum. It hurts, and he wants, and—

Kowalski cocks his head. "What gives, Vecchio? I thought—"

With an incoherent noise, Ray pushes him into the shadows and kisses him.

Kowalski goes with it, laughing low into Ray's mouth as they come to a jarring stop against the wall of the building. Ray can hear the thin fabric of Kowalski's t-shirt catching on the brick when he shifts to tug Ray closer. They're both sweating in the late-night heat, skin slick against skin. Ray can practically feel his brain cells shutting down in waves, till there's nothing in his world but Kowalski's tongue mapping the inside of his mouth, the solid length of Kowalski's cock pressed into the curve of his pelvis. He groans helplessly, and Kowalski laughs again, breathless, slides his hands underneath Ray's undershirt, and—

 _"Fuck,"_ Ray hisses, twisting away automatically.

Kowalski blinks, his eyes blurry and unfocused, then sharpening into understanding as he reaches out and deliberately pulls Ray's shirt aside. Ray lets him; Kowalski's his best friend and Ray gave up years ago on trying to keep this secret from him.

Ray doesn't need to look down to know what the welts look like—red and angry, tinged purple at the edges.

Kowalski lets the shirt drop and shoves off the wall. "That son of a bitch." His fists clench, his arms half-raised. "I swear to God, Vecchio, if you don't kick his ass, I will—"

"'S'okay," Ray mutters, caught in the no-man's-land between _nobody talks about my Pop that way_ and the weird, warm twist in his stomach, _shit, Kowalski, you'd do that for me?_ He leans forward blindly, until he's pressing his forehead against the wall a few inches above Kowalski's shoulder.

After a minute, he feels Kowalski's hand hot on the back of his neck. "Come on, let's get outta here."

The GTO purrs when Kowalski starts her up, rumbling against Ray's body, meeting his wavelength and smoothing it till he can breathe again. He rolls his window down and they drive with the low hum of the radio mixing with the faint city sounds and Kowalski's scattered commentary; the breeze isn't cool, exactly, but it's fresh, it's motion, ruffling Ray's hair and his unbuttoned shirt. He closes his eyes.

Kowalski just _drives_ for a while, talks about nothing and doesn't seem to expect any response, and then finally pulls in at a city park with picnic tables and a jungle gym that Ray remembers playing on when he was a kid. The park's a notorious makeout spot, but it's quiet on a Wednesday, and far enough from the lake that the mosquitoes might not actually eat them alive. Kowalski gets out and stretches, distracting Ray with the strip of bare skin between his t-shirt and jeans, then walks around to settle himself flat on his back on the hood of the car.

Ray echoes him, careful not to mess up the finish—he got the play-by-play on every coat of paint that went onto this car, he knows what it means. The sore spots on his stomach stretch and protest when he moves, but he ignores them. Kowalski unfolds the smokes from his sleeve, and Ray looks up at the grey night sky and listens to the click and crackle of Kowalski's lighter and the flame on paper.

"Gonna be graduation soon," Kowalski says after they've been quiet for a while. The smoke drifts up between them.

"Yep," Ray agrees.

"You could leave."

Ray snorts. "Where would I go?" Chicago's his life, soaked into his bones. Two weeks visiting his aunt in Florida and he's jittering to get back north; he's in for the long haul. Besides, there's Frannie and Ma and Maria and—

"Big world, Vecchio," Kowalski answers. "Where do you wanna go?"

"Nah," Ray says. He rolls his head to the side, watches the way Kowalski's mouth moves as he exhales. "You could, though."

Kowalski grins. "My dad would love that, huh? Go to Stanford. Ivy League."

Ray tries to imagine Kowalski in the California sun, surfing, maybe, or playing beach blanket bingo with the bimbos, and he just laughs. "Yeah, I think it's kinda late for that."

"City Colleges of Chicago." Kowalski sucks in more smoke, exhales hard. "Fuck. What does that even _mean_?"

"Your pop still pushing that?"

"Done deal," Kowalski says, staring straight up at the sky.

Ray blinks. "Since when?"

"Couple of days ago. Whatever." Kowalski shrugs, but his jaw is tight. "Two years, three years, how hard can it be?"

"Right," Ray says, thinking of how Kowalski fidgets his way through the school day now, folding himself up like a pretzel at his desk, spinning pens between his fingers, nonstop motion. _Right._

"And then I'm outta here." Kowalski makes a slicing motion with one hand. "Gone."

"I hate him," Ray blurts suddenly. Immediately, he feels the sick heat of shame and fear in his chest, like the skies are going to open and God's going to judge him right then and there. _Honor thy father, Raimundo_ , he hears in his head, the crack of the belt punctuating each word. He flinches. "I mean—"

"Hey," Kowalski says. He flicks his cigarette away in a shower of tiny red sparks. "Hey, hey, hey. Don't do that. Just—" He shifts closer, his hand sliding over Ray's thigh, and Ray jumps, hyper-sensitive.

He's half-hard already, though, always is when he's alone with Kowalski, and for a few seconds it's too much, the confused, helpless rage tangled with the rush of Kowalski touching him. Ray can't breathe. Then Kowalski pops the button on Ray's jeans, and as soon as his fingers touch skin, Ray gasps and the balance tips, fear and frustration funneling into the quick, familiar slide of Kowalski's hand on him.

"Fuck," Ray whispers, _"yes—"_

Kowalski pushes closer still, hooks a leg over Ray's and starts thrusting against Ray's hip, little hitching motions in time with his strokes on Ray's cock.

"Fuck them," he mumbles, his nose pressed to Ray's neck, breathing into the moist air between them. "Fuck 'em. We're gonna—" He twists his wrist just right and Ray's back arches; his eyes fall shut. Kowalski's voice wraps around him. "We're gonna get outta here, Vecchio. We're gonna do great fuckin' things, you and me. You hear me?"

"Yes," Ray pants, "yes—" He can see colors behind his closed eyes, like a kaleidoscope. There's heat all along his side where Kowalski's plastered against him, melting the thing that's been sharp and painful in Ray's chest for what feels like forever, and they could be anywhere, everywhere, with the engine underneath them and the night around them. He moans and fists a hand in the denim at Kowalski's hip. _Yes. More. Yes._

"Great—fucking—things—" Kowalski's saying, gasping now, too, one stroke and thrust for each word. Ray's past words but he moans again, _yesyesyes_ pounding in his brain, soaking through his skin, and Kowalski grips him harder with an unsteady hand. "You and me, right? You and me, Raimundo—"

Something about that name, _his_ name in Kowalski's mouth and that's it, Ray's coming, the sudden bright burst from the base of his spine and the sticky warmth slicking Kowalski's fingers and somewhere underneath it he can feel Kowalski thrusting hard, shuddering against him.

Then there's nothing but the quiet murmur of the city and a few brave crickets and Kowalski's breath gradually slowing down against Ray's neck.

"I don't want to go home," Ray says hoarsely, the words tumbling out of him. "Okay? Can we just—"

"Yeah," Kowalski answers. "I figured." He stands up long enough to shimmy out of his jeans and boxers, wrapping up the shorts into a bundle and tossing them on the ground next to the car. "Laundry day tomorrow," he explains with a half-shy grin. "Lucky for me."

Ray eases himself into a sitting position, careful of his stomach and of the GTO, strips off his outer shirt and cleans himself up as best he can. Laundry day at his house isn't till Saturday, but maybe Mrs. Kowalski will bail him out. By the time he's finished, Kowalski's yanked his jeans back on and is stretching out on the hood again.

The city isn't exactly the best place for star-watching, but Ray tries anyway, peering up at the murky dark above them. There's a hint of a breeze blowing in off the lake now, cool on his damp skin.

"You ever think about being a cop?" Kowalski asks after a while, out of nowhere.

Ray looks over at him. "A _cop_?"

"Yeah. Y'know. Fight the good fight." He clasps his hands together in front of him, arms locked, index fingers pointed straight up. "Freeze, scumbag, reach for the sky!"

Ray laughs. "Do they actually say that?"

"Fuck what they say. _I'd_ say it." Kowalski drops his arms and settles himself more comfortably on the hood. "It's just... I've been thinking about it."

"Chicago PD," Ray tries, feeling the words in his mouth. Then, "Get your hands off her! Chicago PD!"

"There ya go." Kowalski's grinning. "Could be something, Vecchio."

"That's _Detective_ Vecchio to you." Ray's getting into it now.

"Yeah, well, then I'm Sergeant Kowalski, so go get me some fuckin' coffee," Kowalski shoots back, and Ray thumps him on the shoulder and they both end up snickering.

But it doesn't last long, and then they're quiet, staring up at the sky with their shoulders touching. Ray can feel his heart starting to pound a little faster again. His mind is swirling with possibility. With potential.

 _Detective Vecchio._ Yeah. He kind of likes the sound of that.


End file.
